


it ain't that holy

by crownedcarl



Category: Haven (TV)
Genre: Gen, Nathan Wuornos centric, Pre-Canon, References to Depression, Religious Discussion, Trans Nathan Wuornos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:08:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26166913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownedcarl/pseuds/crownedcarl
Summary: "I'd like to have a word with you.""About what?""Faith," Driscoll sighs, gesturing to the altar, at the figure crucified behind it. "And your place, in the grand scheme of things."
Relationships: Duke Crocker/Nathan Wuornos (implied)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14





	it ain't that holy

**Author's Note:**

> surprise, bitch, bet you thought you'd seen the last of me! memes aside and considering that i'm on an extended leave from the fandom and writing lately, i couldn't resist the muse that grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me until this idea rattled free of my skull. there's something fascinating about a world where the rev wasn't always the abhorrent asshole canon showed us, so i set out to explore that.
> 
> the title is from judgement day by stealth, which set the mood for this fic. i'd love to hear your thoughts on it, so comments are appreciated and kudos are always welcome ✿

Nathan is sick of church pews.

The high collar of his suit itches, his cuffs too tight around his wrists - ill-fitting, the way his clothes always are, lately, on his body, the one that's growing the wrong way. The toe of his dress shoes scuffs against the floor and it's only a moment later that Garland tightens a hand on his shoulder, leaning in too close, muttering "Show some respect, Nathan. It's a funeral, for god's sake," like Nathan fidgeting in the middle row is a stain on their good name, somehow.

It's a joke. The funeral, too, considering Duke hasn't even had the decency to show up, himself. Maybe that's for the best, Nathan considers, staring down at the floor, thinking back to Duke's face, ashen with shock, when he'd said the words aloud: _dad's dead._

Reverend Driscoll drones on, monotone and composed. It's Nathan's third funeral. He's never heard Driscoll's voice waver for anyone.

"Simon Crocker was a great man," he murmurs, voice teetering too close to real emotion for comfort - Nathan can see the shifty-eyed looks Edna Burke shoots her husband at the display, shaking her head in disbelief. "His loss will be felt for years to come."

"No tears for Jenny's baby," someone whispers in the row behind Nathan, "But Crocker, he gets the waterworks?"

It's an exaggeration. Driscoll's eyes are as dry as the desert, despite his mouth quivering. It's funny, Nathan thinks, but then he remembers the empty casket and composes himself, worrying at his lower lip, wondering when Duke's going to start answering the phone again.

After it's all over and the handshakes have been had and words have been murmured back and forth, once people have started to politely file out, Garland tells Nathan to stay put and behave. "I'll be just a moment," he says, which doesn't clarify anything at all, but Nathan stays seated until everyone has emptied out, staring up at the ceiling, fingers drumming against his thigh.

He stays there for all of thirty seconds before he breaks. The church is empty, now. It's always seemed like such a severe, forbidden place, oppressive walls closing in. It feels less suffocating, now, when Nathan's got free reign.

His footsteps are loud, echoing off the high ceiling, his feet shuffling closer to the altar as his fingers run across the banister, tracing its bumps and grooves. He's starting to sweat through his shirt.

"Shouldn't you be outside?" a voice interrupts, startling Nathan into twirling around, knocking down a candle that thankfully isn't lit in the process. The crash of the impact makes reverend Driscoll wince sardonically, his eyebrows creeping up his forehead. "It's a beautiful day, Nathan. No sense in spending it in here."

Nathan backs up a step before remembering who he's talking to, a flush creeping across his face. "Sorry," he offers, briskly kneeling down to pick up the candle, biting his lip when he sees the dent in the brass, wondering how angry his dad is going to be at him if Driscoll decides to bring it up. "I didn't mean to-"

"Sure you didn't," the reverend laughs, "But the damage is done anyway, isn't it? Remember that, Nathan, won't you? It's a good lesson. A necessary lesson."

Nathan feels faintly like reverend Driscoll is reading lines for a conversation Nathan didn't get the script for; he's unprepared and clumsy, trying to follow along. "I will, sir," he promises, carefully placing the candle back on the table, his ears burning. "Uh, dad told me to wait. Here. I can leave-"

"No, no," the reverend assures him, stalking closer, one arm winding itself around Nathan's shoulders like a boa constricting its prey, "I appreciate the opportunity, Nathan. I'd like to have a word with you."

"About what?"

"Faith," Driscoll sighs, gesturing to the altar, at the figure crucified behind it. "And your place, in the grand scheme of things."

Nathan nods, exhaling a quiet sigh of relief when the reverend releases him, perching himself on the edge of a pew. It puts distance between them, but the reverend has a keen gaze that still lands on Nathan across the gap before offering Nathan an affable smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Your father," Driscoll begins, "Had a certain gift. Much like Simon, in fact," he goes on, running a hand across his face, "One day, I want you to be prepared to use it. Burdens need to sit on strong shoulders."

"What gift?" Nathan scoffs, casting a glance at the door, wondering what Garland Wuornos has that's so special that Nathan isn't seeing. Driscoll meets his curious gaze with a calculating one of his own, shrugging one shoulder in a non-reply.

"Maybe you're not ready," he surmises, sounding equal parts disappointed and unsurprised, "But we'll get back to that, eventually. How's school, Nathan? How's Duke?"

It's an obvious segue, but not one Nathan can figure out the reason behind.

"I don't know," he sighs, "Fine, I guess. Uh, school's...fine. Duke's not talking to me, or anyone. I think he's angry."

"I suppose that's to be expected," the reverend murmurs, rising to his feet in a fluid motion, clasping his hands behind his back. "You have opposite destinies. He's always been a brash one. Lucky he's got you to round him out, isn't he?"

"He's my friend," Nathan mumbles, like there's any use in defending Duke in this town, anymore, not to mention the fact that Nathan has always burned hot, been the blaze to Duke's sizzle, but Driscoll nods and doesn't protest the notion, taking in Nathan's face with a peculiar humor dancing in his eyes. He looks like he knows something Nathan doesn't.

Stepping closer to the window, Driscoll's face becomes cast in the pale sunlight from outside. It etches lines into his face that weren't there before. He looks grim, but more than that and beyond it, he just looks tired. "Tell me something. Do you have faith, Nathan?"

His mouth is dry. It feels like a trick question; how do you say no, standing in a church, under Driscoll's heavy brow and keen eyes? How do you prepare a convincing enough lie, just to spare yourself his judgement?

Nathan's at a loss. "Sometimes."

"Well," the reverend laughs, a suddenly booming sound to fill the silence, "I suppose that's better than an outright no, boy. That's a start."

The reverend seems about ready to dismiss him, but before he can tell Nathan to go on and get, Driscoll hums "It's a tricky thing, isn't it? Choosing where to place your faith? I hope we can finish this discussion some other time, Nathan. It's important that you're ready."

Nathan has spent a lot of time tossing and turning at night, clenching his jaw at school, avoiding Garland's eyes. A lot of church folk say he's going somewhere unpleasant, when his time is up. Nathan's been inclined to believe them for a long time.

"Rev?"

The man has already turned to tidy the altar, but he peers at Nathan from over his shoulder, mirth flickering across his twitching mouth, inclining his head in curiousity.

"Where do you think I'll go, when I die?"

It's an absurd question. Nathan doesn't believe in the afterlife, but the reverend does. His lips begin to thin when Nathan bulldozes into the uncomfortable question, because they both know that Nathan isn't one of his flock. It shouldn't matter as much as it does.

"Nathan!"

Garland appears in the half-open doorway, a cigarette sitting between his teeth. "Hurry up, now. I need to get to work."

Apologetically, Nathan shrugs in the reverend's direction, dusting off the knees of his pants before hurrying down the aisle, halting when a long, aggrieved chuckle sounds from behind him.

"You're a good boy, Nathan," Driscoll sighs, his shadow casting a long, black sneer across the floor. "But I'm afraid it isn't enough."

**Author's Note:**

> if you enjoyed this, you can check out my other haven fics [ here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownedcarl/pseuds/crownedcarl/works?fandom_id=9218791)!


End file.
